Hitman: Contracts Revisted
by MissScorp
Summary: The clone assassin has played their game long enough–-now it's time that they play his.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: This is a slightly AU story that is set before Absolution and the novel Damnation but which is after the events of the videogame **Blood Money. **

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing but for my general story concept and theme as well as all original characters.

* * *

_Mong Kok, on the Kowloon Peninsula, Hong Kong. Spring. 2011._

"I'm just a business man!"

Agent Smith breathed in carefully, trying not to disturb his bruised and battered ribs. "My company asked me to come to Hong Kong, attend a few conferences on the latest developments in telecommunications, purch-"

A fist hooked upward into his face and landed squarely on his mouth, mashing his lips against his teeth. His head thudded back against the stone wall of the small storage room. "Try again, Mr. Smith."

Groaning and sobbing, Smith let his head roll on his shoulders and loll down onto his chest. He could taste his own blood in his mouth. It oozed into the stubble on his chin.

"Don't. For the love of God, don't! I don't even know what you are talking about! I swear that I don't! Listen, I'm just a business man! I work for a London-based telecommunications firm! I swear it."

He let his voice trail off into a pathetic whimper. Head hunched between his shoulders to protect his face, he poked his tongue against his front teeth. _Damn_! One-no-two were most definitely loose.

"Push his head back please, Mr. Phao."

A rough palm bumped into his forehead, lifting his face, pushing him back against the wall. With a moan that was not a total exaggeration, Smith relaxed completely, allowing his body to slump in the chair.

"I do believe that you hit him too hard Mr. Phao."

"He is only trying to fool us Master Woo."

"Then please continue."

"With pleasure, Master Woo."

The bodyguard tangled his fingers in Smith's hair and yanked the prisoner upright. Smith grunted, his face contorted in pain, and his limbs stiffened to bear his weight. Obviously, his moan had not been convincing enough. It never was. _And that is probably why I end up being tortured by the people I have been hired to spy on, _the CIA agent thought bitterly.

Phao chuckled, his grin feral. "See Master. I told you that he was just trying to fool us."

Shao Woo nodded. "I do see Mr. Phao."

He leaned forward to inspect the bruised and bleeding face. He was so close that Smith could pick up the hint of licorice that was on his breath.

"You would save yourself a lot of misery if you would just cooperate with us, Mr. Smith." Woo waited a moment, and then straightened with a show of regret. "You would do well to realize that you are going to tell us everything that we want to know, one way or another."

Smith squinted through the blood and the sweat and tried to think above and beyond the pain. He needed to remember everything. It could prove useful in the future. He let his head sag lower.

"I've already told you, I don't know anything."

A palm slapped hard against the back of his head. "Hey! Don't you play possum on Master Woo! It won't work!"

Smith swayed with the blow. _God! Please let them get sick of hitting me soon_! His lines, however, were too overdramatic to not be believable.

"Mistake. You're making a mistake. I don't know anything."

Shao Woo leaned forward again so their faces were again inches apart. "Listen, Mr. Smith-"

"Not Smith," He groaned. It was important to stick with the script. "James. David James."

Woo's lips curled into a sneer. "_Mr. James_, whatever name you wish to address yourself by is fine with me. What I know is that you are an American secret agent that has ties with the International Contract Agency. I also know that your Agency sent you here a few years ago to spy upon, and, ultimately steal the jade figurine that belonged to Lee Hong. Now we have a dozen Red Dragon members who can step forward at a moment's notice and say that you were nowhere near the Wang Fou Restaurant the night that Lee Hong was murdered. You could be a free and ultimately, very rich man in twenty-four hours. Twelve even. Just tell me where I can find the Agency's urban legend, Mr. 47."

Smith wavered, dreading what he knew would follow should he refuse to comply with the request. At length, he drew a deep breath. "I don't know what you are talking about. I don't know a Mr. Forty-Seven."

With a shrug, Woo stepped back. "Mr. Phao."

The blow caught Smith in the temple and knocked him sideways into the wall. The rough stone scrapped off a patch of skin and hair. Hot blood oozed down the back of his neck. Phao waited for his victim to fall forward, then he hauled Smith back up by the hair. Teeth barred in a feral grin, he slapped Smith's head from side to side in his massive hands.

"You should tell Master Woo what he wants to hear _yang gui zi_."

Barely clinging to consciousness, Smith tried to focus upon which direction that voice was coming from. He blinked rapidly, but could not clear his vision. Instead he was aware of blackness slashed through and through with red and yellow streaks of light. Woo's voice came from right in front of his face. "Listen to me, you _chun _zi. Those same Red Dragon members can just as easily step forward and say _you_ were the man who murdered Lee Hong. The Red Dragon take a dim view of somebody impersonating one of their clan members and killing a leader as respected as Lee Hong."

"I swear that I don't know what you are talking about," Smith insisted wearily. "Why won't you believe me? I don't-"

Woo interrupted him. He started intently into the prisoner's battered face.

"Look, Mr. Smith, when I find Mr. 47, I will get credit for having brought Lee Hong's murderer to justice. I will be promoted, perhaps even as high as Dragon Head. Do you understand what it is that I am saying to you? I mean to get where Mr. 47 is, out of _you_. Mr. Phao will not stop until you tell me where he is. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Smith opened his mouth. More blood oozed from the corners of it. Tears trickled from his eyes. His vision began to clear, though the faces of Phao and Woo were distorted like reflections in a funhouse mirror. He tried to swallow.

"I've told you the truth, I swear it." His voice rasped out of his dry throat. "I am not an Agent for any Agency, nor do I know a Mr. 47. I am David James from Baltimore and I work for a London-based telecommunications firm."

Woo drew back. "Phao."

"No." Smith hunched his shoulders, small protection with his hands tied behind his back. "Don't. Don't hit me again. Please!"

Smith's howl of pain when Phao hit him was entirely real. His head slammed back against the wall again, but this time the sound was mushy as his scalp split. Blood flowed, soaking the front of his chest, trickling hotly down his back, mixing with sweat. _Lena, where the hell are you_? The same fist thudded into his belly, right below his thoracic diaphragm. It drove the breath up out of his lungs in a searing burst of agony. Smith started to slide again; this time no amount of physical torment that Phao inflicted upon him brought him back upright.

* * *

Though publicly classified as a commercial office building, the 263-foot high-rise had originally been designed to serve as a research driven, specialty focused, Biopharmaceutical Corporation, which was why it had all the sophisticated elegance of the other high-rises overlooking the sparkling waters of Copenhagen Harbor. But, unlike her architectural peers, this high-rise was expected to make her living in a fashion completely opposite of the public image that it presented. Which was why the two basement floors had been converted into an underground facility that contained a fleet of armored SUVs, fifty Suzuki Hayabusa hyper sport motorcyles, twenty-five snowmobiles, twenty personal water crafts complete with trailers, fifteen speed boats, and a dozen bulletproof Jaguar XK sport cars.

Not to mention a great deal of state-of-the-art communication, weaponry and tracking equipment that was used to support the worldwide activities that went on above the basement. At the heart of the building, and the place where Diana Burnwood spent the majority of her time, was her personal office suite on the 15th floor. Her high-backed office chair was seated at the center of an oblong glass table from which she could monitor the twenty-four wall-mounted LCD screens, six side-by-side computer displays and handle satellite phone calls from all over the globe. Diana had a high forehead and eyes she felt were just a bit too small for her own taste. Still, she had been blessed with high, sculpted cheekbones, a full mouth, skin smooth as silk, a small, straight nose and perfectly white teeth.

"Say that again," she said as the sound faded out in her Bluetooth headset. "You're breaking up."

"I said that I need to make contact with Agent 47," the woman on the other end of the phone sucked in a breath, exhaled slowly. "Is he available?"

"I'm sorry," Diana said evenly. "But Agent 47 has not reestablished contact with the Agency following his last assignment."

The controller had never met the operative face-to-face, but she knew from the file that the Agency had that Selena Romanove was quite pretty. And extremely intelligent. Selena had been the youngest and most inexperienced operative- barely six months past her twenty-third birthday and fresh off her twenty-one week training course at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia-the Agency had ever hired. But there had been plenty of times- dark and desperate times in fact- in the nine years that Lena had worked for the Agency where she had proven what an asset she was to the organization. It had been Lena-utilizing the FBI and CIA's own extensive databases- who had uncovered the true affiliation that Alexander Leland Cayne had with the Franchise. And Diana was quite fond of her for that reason.

"And to be quite honest with you," the controller said softly. "I am not sure when he will reestablish that link with us."

He had become more of a lone wolf since nearly being killed by the Franchise, Diana thought soberly. Learning he could form his own contracts and set his own agendas had made him less reliant on them for work. Not that she could fault him any.

"What..?" In the act of reaching into her fridge for a bottle of water, Lena froze. "Not reestablished contact?" Her stomach tied itself into slippery knots. "Diana, it's been nearly two months since his last assignment!"

"I'm sorry, Selena," Diana typed a few commands into the computer on her left, which was sufficient enough to confirm that the tracker located in Lena's cell phone was showing the Agent to be in Hong Kong. It wasn't that she didn't trust the agent. Lena had proven herself to be above suspicion. It was more to establish that the agent was where she was _supposed_ to be, and handling the assignment that she had been _assigned_ to. "But 47 has not made contact with us." _Or with me._

Lena waited a beat. Frazzled, both at herself and the situation that she was in, she ran the cold bottle over her forehead.

"Smith has been captured by the Red Dragon Triad."

"This is not the first time that Agent Smith has managed to get himself captured while on a mission for the Agency." Diana replied brusquely, one brow lifting into a perfect and derisive arch. "Nor will it be the last time, I am sure."

"Diana, they knew we were in Hong Kong." Lena twisted the cap off the water bottle. Scowling, she sipped at the water. "They ambushed us as soon as our plane landed at Chep Lap Kok."

"But..." Diana said slowly. "That is not possible. Lena, only an executive board member would have had access to that mission briefing."

"Diana," Raya sighed. "Shao Woo not only knew when that plane was going to land, he knew at which _terminal _it was going to pull up too." Her throat had suddenly gone dry, making her voice a low, guttural sounding whisper. "If it had not been for my contact in the CAPF, both Smith and I would have been captured in the ambush. Or worse."

It was silent as the controller considered what few options that they had. She should- and would of course- inform the board of what the field agent had just revealed to her. But something felt wrong. Something that Lena had not yet told her and which Diana instinctively knew was going to deal with 47.

"This… is not going to please the executive board." Diana hissed out a breath. "The Agency has only just begun to recover from its near annihilation at the hands of the Franchise. Hearing that we could potentially have a leak this soon is going to send the board into a state of sheer panic."

"Which is why I need to find 47," was the agent's automatic reply. "And quickly. If my informant is correct, this is about him. And…" Lena paused, gulped water. "The assassination of Lee Hong."

"Lee Hong?" The sound of the former Red Dragon leader's name sent a chill down the controller's spine. "47 had been hired to eliminate Lee Hong nearly eleven years ago. Why would the Red Dragon have waited this long to get their revenge? And why take Agent Smith hostage?"

"The Red Dragon never forgot about the insult that was inflicted upon their triad all those years ago," the agent said, her voice hard as stone. "And whoever Shao Woo's informant is, they knew that it was 47 that had been hired to kill Lee Hong. And they know that 47 has a history of having to come to Smith's rescue whenever he gets captured. They are planning to use Smith to lure 47 from hiding."

Diana glanced once again at one of the monitors to her left. The board members were still in a board meeting, with Mr. Nu only being halfway through his report. "They are planning on using Smith as a bargaining chip," she said pensively. "As a means by which to draw 47 out into the open so that they can kill him."

"Exactly."

"I'll see what I can do Lena." Diana said solemnly, already typing commands into the computer. "But I can't promise you that I will find much of anything. If 47 does not desire to be located, he is not going to be."

"I have to find him before the Red Dragon do Diana," the operative said matter-of-fact. "And soon. Tell the board to not send any more agents after him. The last two have yet to recuperate from the injuries he gave them."

"I'll tell them," the controller promised. "But I do not see it stopping management from sending agents after 47."

"We can only try, Diana."

"I know. And Lena? Be careful. 47 is not a man to be trifled lightly with."

"I know. But I have to risk it, Diana. I have to find him." Lena said, and then severed the connection.


	2. Chapter 2

******Disclaimer**: I own nothing but for my general story concept and theme as well as all original characters.

* * *

"So Mr. Smith, how did you enjoy your day of confinement?"

Agent Smith's face was barely recognizable. Hideously bruised and swollen from the beating that Shao Woo had ordered inflicted, it was also a fiery shade of red. His cell was located in the basement of the Wang Fu restaurant, a thick stone room of maybe ten feet wide and across that was used to hold anybody foolish enough to cross the Red Dragon. There was no ventilation system this far down and the hot steam that wafted from out of the laundry area turned the cell into an oven.

"I would imagine that a cold glass of water would taste good right about now." Shao Woo went on.

Agent Smith could not even lick his lips. Lifting his head, he squinted up at the black silhouette that hovered in front of him. The leader set a glass on the edge of the table and dipped his fingers into the cool water.

"Sure does feel good. Would taste even better as it slides down a parched throat." Woo flicked his fingers. A few precious drops of the water splattered on Smith's face, almost made him weep. "Just tell me what I desire to know about Mr. 47 and we'll let you have all the water that you want."

Smith let his chin fall forward onto his chest. He tried to speak, cleared his throat, summoned up enough saliva to wet the parched tissues in his mouth.

"Mistake," he rasped.

"What was that Mr. Smith? I couldn't quite understand what you were trying to tell me."

"Mistake! You're making a mistake!"

"Wrong!" Shao Woo slapped the glass from the table, sending a silver stream of water to splatter upon the stone floor. "Wrong answer Mr. Smith! And you must not be very bright if you are going to continue trying to spin a tale that I already know is a fake one!" Shao Woo stepped back to the door. "Perhaps you will be more inclined to tell the truth after another day spent in darkness. I hope that you enjoy your confinement Mr. Smith. But know this, my patience wears thin. You will either tell me what it is that I want to know or I will dispose of you."

The door slammed shut, the bar rammed across it and Smith was plunged back into darkness.

* * *

A bank of clouds had rolled in from the west, obscuring the moon. Lightning flickered in the midst of the thunderheads and was punctuated by a series of ominous rumblings. Lena shivered despite the sultry heat of the night. The conversation with Diana had left her feeling unsettled and quite a bit annoyed. She had planned on Diana being able to put her in direct contact with 47. The unusually close relationship that the controller had with the assassin was something many within the Agency thought to be strange. But not Lena. A controller and agent needed to be bonded, needed to not only trust in each other but know without a shadow of doubt that they could rely upon the other as well. An agent was only as good as their handler was. _Which is why I have gone through so many handlers_, she thought as she stood watching as rain began to fall. It was not a light preliminary sprinkle, she saw, but a sudden slashing flood. Even through the thick curtain she could see the neon lights of Hong Kong shining bright. In a couple of hours the shops and businesses would all open.

And people would walk along those streets and go about their daily business, working in those businesses or browsing what the vendors had to offer without a care in the world or ever once knowing that secret organizations like the ICA operated amongst them. There was always a strong tourist trade in Mong Kok. People came from all over the world to browse through the array of markets, small shops, and food stalls. Tung Choi Street, which was commonly called Ladies Market was right around the corner from her while Langham Palace, a shopping mall, office tower and hotel all housed beneath the roof of the 59-story high-rise was a mile up on Portland. Most tourists would come to Hong Kong, spend a day poking through all the shops, take the Peak Tram up to the Peak, or head out to see the Ten Thousand Buddha's Monastery in Sha Tin before settling in for the night with some dinner and cultural entertainment.

But it was a section of Portland Street, particularly between Argyle and Dundas Street, that tended to draw a different breed of traveler and local alike. There, underneath the dizzying and chaotic array of neon signs and flashing lights announcing an assortment of massage parlors, night clubs, karaoke and hostess bars and brothels, was where one could find prostitutes-mostly from mainland China- from all around the world. Triad activity as well as human trafficking, firearms, gambling and extortion was also high in this particular area, which was why Hong Kong's Organized Crime and Triad Bureau was more active here than anywhere else. The Wang Fu restaurant that belonged to the Red Dragon was also located on the corner of Argyle and was where Lena suspected that Smith had been taken following the triad's ambush at the airport. Lightning flashed again, lighting up the entire room before plunging it back into encompassing darkness. The air crackled with electricity and smelled thickly of ozone. Simultaneously, the thunder boomed with a force that she could feel. It was an ominous sign, as if the spirits themselves were telling Lena that she should turn back now while she still had a chance.

But Lena could not, would not, turn back from the path she had chosen to take. Smith had to be rescued and justice, no matter how bloody or brutal, needed to be delivered. She felt more than passing responsibility for Agent Smith being captured and likely tortured and beaten. She felt _guilty_. It was a madness inside her, tearing at her heart and her soul. Even recognizing it, she could not defeat it. Nobody in their right mind hunted for a hunter that had been rigorously trained in all methods of murder since birth. Nobody in their right mind at least, Lena thought, a bubble of hysterical laughter rising up inside of her. The drama of the entire situation kept her from breaking down completely. Eerie words from Shakespeare's Macbeth danced in her mind and were fitting to describe the upcoming scenes. '_Blood will have blood_.'

Lee Hong's assassination was the first act of this particular play. Never mind that Lee Hong was a truly vile man, brutal, barely worth considering as being human. '_Fair is foul and foul is fair_.' Like the greatest of Shakespearean tragedies, the plot always seemed to end with bloodshed. Again, the lightning and thunder, but the rain had slowed to a steady, drumming splatter. The worst of the storm was over. A part of her noted the appropriate sound and lighting effects. After all, this scene was the opening of the drama and most important to the development of the plot. All the action turned on it. All the players depended upon it. She drew a deep controlling breath and went over her lines and her moves, analyzing her performance, looking for areas that were flawed and needed improvement. So far her performance had been perfect. Nothing less would have served. She had to remember everything and maintain a constant focus. First thing she needed to do was make a list of all potential locations were a man like 47 would- indeed, could- go to disappear from the world who looked for him, shunned him, desired to kill him for what his environment and creator had made him.

Sicily would be an obvious choice. The assassin had once taken refuge at a Sicilian Church, working as a gardener in an attempt to put his violent life behind him. But men with 47's skills were hard to come by and it wasn't long before his past caught up with him, forcing him to sever his ties with the Church and return to his previous life. Lena walked to the sofa, curled up. She knew that she shouldn't, but she couldn't help the wealth of sympathy that welled up inside her for the legendary assassin. It was not like he would appreciate the sentiment, she told herself as she tucked her bare feet beneath the spread of a quilt she had tossed at the end of the sofa. Yet, wasn't it compassion that 47 had sought almost as actively as he did salvation? Lena furrowed her brow, searching through the endless amounts of data she had stored mentally for an answer that best suited the question. But the only answer that kept coming back at her was a simple, almost insufficient one; _yes_. And that only made solving the puzzle that was Agent 47 all the more difficult she realized with a pang, plumping one of the plush pillows behind her before she rest her head upon it.

* * *

Alexander Leland Cayne Jr. stared at the note from Shao Woo. His face paled, then reddened. He laid the note down and flexed his fingers to keep from forming a fist and slamming it through the plate glass window behind him. Noting the man's distress, his bodyguard came around the side of the desk to pour whiskey from a decanter on the sideboard into a crystal tumbler. Alexander accepted the glass and downed it in one long swallow. When his anger cooled, he picked the letter up again, read it, swore, and laid it back down.

Selena Romanove had not been found and Agent Smith had not cracked. Alexander rubbed a hand over his face. He should have sent one of his more experienced agents to oversee the operation, but Shao Woo had seemed ideal for the task. A man equally as obsessed and utterly ruthless, no sentimentality would have clouded his judgment. Woo hated the clone assassin almost as much as he and would handle 47 in the same brutal fashion that he would were the agent in his grasp. He looked again at the note.

"Agent Romanove has not been located."

_As if the damn woman can simply disappear into thin air_! Alexander snorted. Selena Romanove was talented but she was not _that_ talented. And being the heir of the vast Cayne family fortune, he had made it his business to learn everything that he could about the individuals who had participated in his father's murder.

He had not, however, made it his business to learn the exact extinct of his father's dishonor. Rumors of unexplained accidents, mysterious deaths, connections with sordid and illegal operations and behavior that was unbecoming of the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation had tarnished his father's sterling reputation. He had not even looked into his father's true affiliation with the Franchise. As far as he was concerned, Alexander Leland Cayne Sr. had been the perfect FBI man, a man dedicated to upholding the words, '"_Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity_."' Such men should be lauded as heroes, not treated lower than the criminals that they sought to rid the world of. No. Alexander Cayne Sr. would have justice given to him. He would see to it personally. He slapped the telegram down on the desk and reached for the whiskey decanter. His guard still hovered by the desk and grabbed the decanter before his boss could.

He poured the amber-colored liquid into the glass before asking; "Is there anything else that I can do for you, sir?"

Alexander nodded. "Get Celestina La'Roue on the phone and tell her that I want to see her. _Immediately_. And then call Alexsei Gregorvovich and tell him that I can meet him for drinks at six on Thursday."

The guard noted each name on a slip of paper. He hesitated. Alexander looked up irritably. "And to Mr. Woo?"

Alexander crumbled the piece of paper up and tossed it contemptuously into the wastebasket next to his desk.

"Nothing. I will contact him personally.

* * *

Smith staggered back a couple of steps where his back collided with the wall of the cell. Slowly, he slid down it. His manacled wrists draped over his knees as his head sunk back on his shoulders. He took a deep breath of the hot, stale air. His tormentor's obviously thought that they could sweat-literally!- the truth out of him. By midmorning of the second day he told himself that being in this cell was no different from being in the sweltering heat of Bhubaneshwar, India. By late that afternoon, he had known himself to be a liar. He coughed and thought of how good a double scotch and tonic water would taste at that moment. But it did little to relieve his terrible thirst. _He wasn't done yet, though_. Smith touched his shaky fingers to his forehead. The skin was dry; no perspiration whatsoever slicked it. He grimaced. He had never thought to end his life in the same exact cell that 47 had broken him out of seven years before.

Thank God he wasn't claustrophobic. He allowed one corner of his mouth to flick upward in a ghost of a smirk. The movement reminded him painfully of the bruises on his face. Woo's bodyguard had a real enthusiasm for his job. He credited his performance with averting the worst of the damage. Even when the pain was making him want to puke, he had managed to keep his head down and roll with the punches. He felt his nose gently. It was tender to the touch but unbroken. The wounds in his eyebrows and at the corners of his eyes would leave scars, but they'd heal in time. His mangled lips would mend. But his nose? That was another thing entirely. A nose once broken never healed straight. Concentrating on where the next blow was coming by watching the twist of his tormentor's body and listening to the shuffling of his boots on the stone floor had helped take Smith's mind off the pain. Over and over, he had repeated the same well-rehearsed lines, told the exact same story, until he had almost believed it himself. That was the secret of being a good agent. Be a good actor. _Believe the story_.

And he was a good actor even if he was a shitty agent.

Each hour of his imprisonment had allowed him to relax just a little bit more. Lena had gotten away in the middle of the ambush. Which meant that all he had to do was wait. She would contact the Agency and request that they send the one agent, the only agent in fact, who could get Smith out of his current predicament. Hadn't 47 rescued him from similar predicaments in the past? Reassuring himself with those thoughts, Smith concentrated on Lena. When he got out of here, he promised himself that he would stay sober long enough to deliver her to Agency's headquarters, and make sure that she stayed there. How could he have been such a fool? Even her long dead father, the infamous Nikolai Romanove, would never have pursued this mission with the same tenacity that his daughter had. Smith gave a short grunt, all he could manage of a laugh. No, Nikolai Romanove, world-class spy and one of the Agency's first management team members, would have shrugged, cut his losses, and gone on to another mission.

Some men pledged they would give their lives to rid the world of evil. Only Selena Romanove...

He smiled, and then groaned softly at the pain in his face. _Only Lena would carry out that pledge_. Because she knew nothing but mission briefs. Nothing but the hunt. She was what life and her father had made her- a spy. She knew nothing of reality. Thank God she was safely away. Lena was more than capable of taking care of herself; he just hoped that she wouldn't try something foolish. He heaved a sigh. The hot air seared his nostrils as he breathed in the air he had expelled. He stared at the stone walls, at the niches that had been scraped into the stone by desperate men. Desperate men that Smith knew had not survived their ordeals. Who was he kidding? He was hoping the damn woman was plotting something insanely foolish.

"Just be careful Lena," he murmured.

Instantly, he regretted the waste of moisture. And closed his aching eyes on a smile.


	3. Chapter 3

******Disclaimer**: I own nothing but for my general story concept and theme as well as all original characters.

* * *

The important thing was to keep Agent 47 _alive._

That's what Diana Burnwood kept telling herself through the duration of her eleven years as 47's primary handler at the Agency. Even though it was not the Agency's primary directive for a handler to take such a vested interest in their operatives, Diana had, feeling that the Agency's investment in the assassin warranted her extra care and attention. Diana admitted that she felt a certain fondness towards 47. She genuinely wanted to see the agent succeed and aided him on his assignments by going above and beyond the call of her duties as a handler in order to help him achieve success. She'd willfully and willingly broken Agency rules in order to see that the assassin did not meet his end at the hands of the Franchise, placing her own life in jeopardy in order to ensure his survival. She believed that it was her primary _job _to protect the Agency's number one agent.

Well, it _had_ been her job.

Diana was planning on unofficially _retiring _from the Agency within the next few months. Once she was assured that 47 would be taken care of by the person she'd chosen as her replacement she planned to disappear. Considering what she was planning to do in order to buy herself time, to ensure that she would get away clean with her "retirement package," the Agency would stop at nothing in order to eliminate her. And they would send 47 to eliminate her. She knew that, counted on it. Just as she was counting on the years of loyalty, of care and attention to work in her favor when 47 did come for her.

Her decision to retire had come on the heels of Benjamin Travis being appointed as her supervisor two days ago. There had been something about the man that had immediately put Diana on edge. She didn't know what it was that bothered her about him. Travis was more than a capable manager. He was competent, articulate and skilled at handling tough situations. He was also intelligent, tough as nails and ambitious as hell. Diana did not fault him for that, she did not begrudge him for that even. What she did have a problem with was Travis's questionable ethics and less than savory field tactics.

The man was more dangerous than a rabid wolverine. There was an unwritten law among management that said that if a handler suspected that an Agency handler or field operative had become compromised or otherwise poised a threat to the Agency's secrecy that they were to cut all ties with that asset or agent. Protecting the Agency was first and foremost the prime objective of everyone who worked for the Agency. And in Diana's opinion, the project in which Travis was involved was not just compromising the Agency's secrecy, but their integrity as well.

Diana was working with Lena on a way to put 47 in a position where the younger agent could make contact with him. Originally she'd planned to retire once that contact had been established, trusting that Selena was the right choice as her replacement for 47's link to the Agency, but the situation had become doubly complicated after Lena informed her that there was a mole within the Agency selling off information to old enemies of 47. She was going to have to bide her time until the mole was discovered. Which would not be long once Lena made contact with 47. Pairing the Agency's best assassin with one of the most gifted researchers that Diana had ever encountered would ensure that no matter who the double-agent was they would not be long for this world.

_And the sooner that this agent is found the better._

She opened her laptop and switched it on. The encryption software she'd installed was in place; there was no way that anyone could hack into her network. Not without her knowing about it. As she connected to the satellite over Hong Kong, Diana checked the small video monitors to ensure that nobody was heading in her direction. The two minute cameras she'd installed in the light fixtures outside her office were state of the art technology, completely undetectable by the naked eye. They were pointed in opposite directions, so she could spot anyone that was making their way along the corridor. It was by no means perfect, but it did ensure that she knew whenever a high ranking member of management was on the floor and likely to enter her office.

The comlink securely connected to the satellite's signal. An image of a 59-story high-rise-Langham Place, a shopping mall, office tower and luxury hotel all housed beneath one building appeared on her screen. Diana checked her watch. Just a little after ten in the morning. Which meant it was after five there. It was little wonder then why the streets of Mong Kok were jam packed with people. And would only get more crowded as darkness fell. Some cities boasted to never sleep, but not Mong Kok. This small part of Hong Kong epitomized that it was a city that never slept in every neon light, painted smile and back alley shenanigan that went on. Ah, so there he was, Diana thought as she magnified the satellite image. He was the "American tourist" that was walking down Argyle Street and pretending to be engrossed in all the sights and smells going on around him.

Though he was slightly taller than most of the other tourists wandering around the marketplace, there was little else to distinguish the man wearing the dark indigo jeans, short-sleeved blue plaid button down, white ball cap and sneakers from the dozens of others who were similarly dressed. To the casual observer, 47 looked like nothing more than a tourist heading back to his hotel after a long day of shopping and sightseeing in Tsim Sha Tsui. But Diana knew that the assassin was far from anything ordinary.

"Hello, 47," she said into her headset. "Are you enjoying your vacation?"

"I was," came the reply.

There was no inflection of warmth or pleasure in his tone to say that he was happy to hear from her. Which was typical of the man. 47 was a man of few words and even fewer emotions.

"I'm sorry to draw you away from your holiday, but there is a client who wishes for you to handle something in the United States for them."

"Whatever it is, it will have to wait," the assassin said cooly. "I'm busy at the moment."

"I'm afraid that you'll have to postpone whatever it is you are doing," Diana said patiently. "This client is high priority and the target most important."

Diana felt a twinge of guilt for not telling him who the high priority client was and why it was they were using a contracted hit to set up a face-to-face meeting with the assassin. But Diana took comfort in the thought that what she was doing was going to keep the operative alive. That trumped any amount of guilt that she might be feeling at that moment. "I am sorry 47, but this client simply cannot wait."

47 swore silently. He wanted to complete his hit on Charlie Singh-a mid-level Chinese bureaucrat that was utilizing his Government job to cover up his involvement in the billion dollar a year sex trade plaguing the country-as the man was taking his customary walk in the park.

"Who is the contract on?" the agent inquired mildly.

"Alexsei Gregorvovich."

"Gregorvovich?" 47 said thoughtfully. "Is he the brother of Viktor Gregorvovich?"

"Yes, he is," Diana replied. "Alexsei is rumored to work for the Russian mafia in Moscow. He's been linked to the assassinations of U.N. officials, high ranking Russian political figures and anyone else that stands in the way of Viktor becoming Russia's next Premier. And based on the latest intelligence, it looks like he has orders to hit the current Premier as well as members of his cabinet while they are visiting the United States."

The assassin felt a rising sense of frustration. No matter how often he tried to break away from the Agency's control, they always sucked him back in.

"When is my flight scheduled to depart?"

"Your flight is scheduled for late tomorrow night," Diana said. "That should leave you enough time to finish whatever you are doing in Hong Kong. Check your inbox. Everything we have on Gregorvovich is waiting there. And pay special attention to Alexsei's love affair with the ballet. It is rumored that his current lover is the star of the Russian ballet, a _male_ dancer by the name of Ivanko."

"I'll keep that in mind," the assassin said dryly. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes," Diana said. "The contract is for Alexsei specifically-but Viktor is worth $250,000 by himself."

"Then there is more than one client?"

"Yes," the handler replied. "A certain individual within the United Nations would _love _to see Viktor Gregorvovich himself eliminated. So if the opportunity presents itself..."

"I will eliminate Viktor if the opportunity presents itself," the agent promised. "But my main focus will be upon eliminating Alexsei."

"The client will be pleased to hear that," Diana said evenly. "Oh, and one more thing 47..."

"Yes?"

"There will be a special package awaiting you at the front desk of the Waldorf-Astoria. Enjoy the sights and sounds of Times Square, 47..."

* * *

Agent 47 turned down a busy side street and entered the run-down residential hotel that was located across from the park in which Charlie Singh liked to take an early evening stroll. He carried two shopping bags bulging with groceries up the five flights of stairs to apartment 53, where he paused to eye the thread that had been spit-welded across the doorjamb. It was intact. Mindful of how dangerous assumptions could prove to be, the assassin lowered the grocery bags to the floor. Then eyeballing the other doors that opened onto the landing, he drew a pearl handled AMT Hardballer with one hand, while he unlocked the door with the other. There was a soft click. He gave the door a nudge, watched it swing open, and backed away. But rather than a barrage of bullets, the only sounds to be heard were the insistent bleat of the car horns from the street below and the babble of a television from a room at the end of the hall.

Satisfied that it was safe to enter, the assassin did so, weapon at the ready. With the exception of the flies that were swarming around the light fixture in the middle of the ceiling, the dingy room was empty of life. The Silverballer slid back into its holster, the groceries were brought in from the hall, and the door was relocked. The air conditioning system was broken, and there was no relief from the heat except that which was produced by the single window that opened onto the street, so he went over to open it. Hot air filtered into the room, and so did the acrid stench of exhaust fumes and rotting garbage. Once the cold items were put into the softly humming fridge, Agent 47 removed both the short-sleeved plaid shirt and the ball cap. It would have been nice to have removed the pencil-thin goatee, and the contacts. Nice, but far to dangerous now that the assassination of Singh had been given the green light. It was important to stay in character as he kept the park under observation. Having darkened his apartment so that nobody could see in, Agent 47 began his evening work, which consisted of memorizing everything that could prove relevant to his mission.

That included taking note of how many people walked the park at the same time that Singh did, where police officers might be stationed, how frequently the officers changed shifts, which ones were more likely to wander away from their posts, what areas of the park were left unattended, where the entrances and exits were located, and more, so much more. Each new observation was compared against one that he had made during the past few days, in order to detect changes, variations and alterations to patterns. He noted that at least half a dozen people who entered the park were dressed in the loose fitting trousers, shirt, utility belt and straw hat that many of the gardeners seemed to favor. According to his informant, the head of the Red Lotus Society would be meeting Singh at the Pagoda the following evening. Which was when the assassin planned to enter the park, drug the leader, and steal his clothing. After he had usurped the man's identity he planned to meet with Singh and execute him as his client wished. The Red Lotus Society would be officially blamed for Singh's death, leaving the assassin free and clear and off to New York for his next assignment.

But before he made his move, he wanted to be assured of all the comings and goings of the place.

A breeze came up as the sun set and the badly faded curtains began to stir, as the street lights began to come on. 47 continued his vigil. More officers began to show up around midnight, but Azizo, the Red Lotus leader's bodyguard was not among them, so the agent was even more certain that the leader would visit the Pagoda, as planned, the following evening. Around midnight, about five or so officers got into a black four-door sedan and drove off. A process that continued well into the wee hours of the morning before finally tempering off around three a.m. That was when the agent put the binoculars away, took a lukewarm shower, and made a bed on the floor. Then, with both Silverballers close at hand, the assassin went to sleep.


	4. Chapter 3a

******Disclaimer**: I own nothing but for my general story concept and theme as well as all original characters.

* * *

"The _gaijin _is passed out in his cell," Mr. Phao reported to Master Woo.

"For real this time?" Woo asked. "Or is he _faking _again?"

Mr. Phao scratched his chin as he considered his answer.

"I do not think that the _gaijin_ is faking this time, Master. He has had no food or water in twenty-four hours."

Woo frowned. So far Smith had not talked. Chained as he was in a small holding cell down in the laundry area of the Red Dragon Restaurant, he'd continued to deny that he knew the legendary assassin who had murdered Lee Hong. He'd also continually denied that he was a field agent for the very company that employed the clone assassin, or that he was in Hong Kong with the woman ultimately responsible for bringing the Franchise to its knees. A woman that his partner wanted delivered to him so he could make her pay for her part in the murder of his father. But twenty-four hours without water meant that his prisoner was soon going to be so dehydrated that he would be virtually useless to him. He was going to have to move Smith to another cell. There was simply no other choice.

"Have Mr. Smith moved to the brothel and place guards on him to ensure that he cannot escape. And tell Madame Jade that he is to be given whatever he needs to ensure that he will be healthy enough for when Agent 47 comes to rescue him."

Mr. Phao bowed his head respectfully and said; "Yes Master. It shall be done." He turned to go, hesitated a moment. "Is there anything else that you require of me?"

Woo nodded. "Yes. Call Timo and tell him that Mr. Cayne's informant within the Agency has confirmed that Selena Romanove made contact with 47's handler, Diana Burnwood yesterday evening. And it is confirmed that Diana has made contact with the assassin. Agent Romanove and 47 are on their way to New York as we speak."

"It will be done Master," was all Phao said before leaving.

* * *

_Manhattan, New York._

She'd seriously underestimated Shao Woo. Not that it was the first time that that had happened. As she walked quickly past Tiffany's glittering window display, she vowed that she wouldn't underestimate him again. The night was cool with April rain slick on the streets and sidewalk. There was a breeze that even in Manhattan tasted pleasantly of spring. She glanced over her shoulder. They were entirely too damn close. Fifth Avenue was quiet, sedate at this time of night. Streetlights intermittently broke the darkness; traffic was reasonably light. This wasn't exactly the type of place where you could lose yourself in the crowd. As she jogged onto Fifty-Third, she considered ducking down the subway entrance at the base of the Tishman Building—but she decided against it.

If Timo and his goons saw her go down into the subway, she knew it was a good bet that she'd not make it out in anything other than a body bag. Selena heard tires squeal behind her and spun around the corner at Cartier's. Any other time and she'd have happily ducked inside and allowed herself to become swept up by the sea of pretty baubles just waiting to be touched and admired and fawned over. Even she-spy though she might be- was still feminine enough to appreciate the glittering cold sparkle of a well cut diamond. But she knew that to stop now would spell not only _her _end, but the end of 47 as well. She felt the hair at her right temple flutter, heard the muffled pop of a silenced gun, but did not slacken her pace. Almost at once she recognized just how close she'd come to death. Okay, now they were just getting nasty. And Lena knew that they could get a whole lot nastier if they caught her.

On Fifty-Second Street there would be people though—groups of people moving here and there, some walking, some standing and some standing and talking. There, she could become just another face in the crowd. It would be more difficult for Timo to spot her if she was one female body inside a hundred others. Not impossible she thought, just harder. Selena kept her pace slow and faded in and out of the various crowds while keeping her eyes and ears open, as she'd been taught to do. She spotted the black Mercedes SUV as it pulled up a half block away, and watched as three men in trim dark suits and sunglasses got out.

They hadn't spotted her yet, but it wouldn't be long before they did. Damn it, Shao Woo was not taking any chance on her escaping his clutches this time. She'd have to make a stand. There simply was no other choice. Thinking fast, she scanned the area around her for a place that would suffice and dove through the door of the nearest restaurant. Inside, wallpaper shimmered in cool colors under dimmed lights. People sat at linen-covered tables and dined off plates of the finest porcelain. The gleam of brass rails formed a path to either the kitchen or a bar. Selena hoped it was the kitchen simply because there would at least be an exit she could utilize to put more distance between her and the men chasing her.

Kitchens also provided plenty of weapons that could be quite handy if a field operative found themselves being pursued by individuals with guns. Personally, she preferred making stands in public bathrooms. Bathrooms had plenty of hard surfaces that could knock a pursuer unconscious. But she'd take what she could get at this moment. Soon as she passed through the front door she caught the scent of Italian cooking—sage, basil, red wine. Briefly she considered ducking into the dining room and hiding at a quiet table, but the bar offered a much better array of weapons. Affecting a slightly bored look, she smoothed the front of her dress and sashayed over. Even as she slid onto a stool, she was calculating how and when she could make her exit.

"Vodka on the rocks." She sent the bartender a slow, warm smile. "Vanil Stolichnaya, if you have it."

The bartender selected a bottle of vanilla infused Stoli from among those he kept chilled in the cooler, held it up for her inspection and after she nodded assent, poured the clear liquor into a glass that he set in front of her. She picked up the glass, sipped the warm and bitingly sweet liquor as she kept her face turned ever so slightly towards the door. Her hair was a pale halo; her face beautiful and calm. But her eyes, as blue as the ocean waters found in Senggigi, were pensive as they remained trained on the entrance behind her for the men hunting for her. Like 47, she was skilled at creating new identities for herself.

A couple of wigs, some spirit gum and different colored contact lenses and were almost as important to a field agents arsenal as a gun and cell phone were. There were some instances, as she well knew, where the tools for crafting a new identity were even more important than a weapon. Weapons could be found in the field after all. But when you had to get out of a sticky situation and fast? Having the right tools made all the difference in the world on whether you'd be successful or not.

As Lena waited for Timo and his goons to appear, she busily worked out all the alternatives that were open to her. She didn't have all that many really. She'd learned to think on her feet at an early age, just as she'd learned how to use those feet as lethal weapons if the situation called for it. Nikolai Romanove had ensured that his only daughter was given the best education-inside the classroom as well as out. But while she didn't mind a fight- under normal circumstances she might even have enjoyed getting into one just to relieve some of the tension that had been building inside her since the incident in Hong Kong two nights ago-she didn't like when the odds were stacked so heavily against her.

Selena could deal straight from the top of the deck, or she could cheat by skimming cards from the bottom of the deck. It just depended upon if cheating was necessary to the situation in which she'd found herself. What was lurking outside, stalking the streets of Manhattan in search of her, meant to end her life because of her involvement in preventing the death of the man known only as 47. Weighing cause against effect, Selena saw that the cause far outweighed the effect. Keeping 47 alive and out of the hands of the Franchise was worth any price she was required to pay.

Two ladies seated at the table behind her were discussing the latest _Fifty Shades of Grey_ title in great detail. Another group was complaining about the price of the drinks and the lack of action for a Wednesday night. That crowd was largely made up of single males she saw, here to drink off the tension of the long work day while searching for a companion in which to pass the heat of the night. There were business suits, short skirts and Sketchers. A varied crowd in which she easily blended. Satisfied, she took another sip of vodka. She could have picked a worse place in which to make a stand she decided. An attractive guy in a dark grey suit leaned against the bar on her right and sent her a long, slow smile. He smelled of Calvin Klein and scotch. Crossing one foot over the other, he swallowed the last of his drink.

"So, haven't seen you in here before."

Selena gave him a brief look—enough to take in the predatory gleam underneath the slightly blurred vision. "No, you haven't."

Any other time and she might have been amused. But not when she had more important things on her mind. Such as guys with guns searching for her.

"My office is just a few blocks from here," even after four scotches he could recognize something exotic, deeply forbidden about the woman seated next to him. And he was deeply interested in finding out what that something was. "I'm a real estate analyst."

"Mmm," was her only response. The hair on the back of her neck prickled the instant that the three men walked into the bar. She continued to sip her drink, watching them in the mirror behind the bar. The three looked more like businessmen than hired thugs. One of them remained standing by the door-she didn't recognize him, but knew he was dangerous by the empty, vacant look in his eyes. Timo obviously hadn't thought about the door behind the bar, which could work to her advantage. Rather than being perturbed by her lack of response, the man standing next to her laid a hand over hers. And missed the shadow of threat that darkened her face for a moment.

"So, what do you do?"

Turning her head slightly, she casually swirled the alcohol in her glass.

"I'm a secret agent that works for a clandestine agency with a full service bar of hired guns at their disposal," she told him because people—especially when drunk- rarely believed the truth.

"Really?" The man laughed and turned more fully towards her. "How about I buy you a drink and you tell me more about it?"

Selena wondered if that line ever actually worked. She shook her head. "I've got a drink," she said. "Thank you."

He wasn't put off in the least by her rejection. "How about we get a quiet table and just get to know each other better then?"

Had to give the guy credit, she thought with a sigh, he was persistent. She shook her head and did her best to remain inconspicuous. It was quite possible Timo wouldn't notice her seated at the bar. From behind she was just another blonde. Even as she thought it she felt the pressure of a gun barrel against her side. Once again, she had underestimated just how badly Shao Woo wanted her. Really got to stop doing that she told herself.

"Let's go, Romanove. Mr. Woo wants to see you. _Immediately_."

"Oh? Have I done something to attract this much of his attention?"

"Don't be cute lady, ya knows why the boss wants to see ya."

Oh yea, she knew why. _47_.

"And if I refuse to go with you?"

The barrel dug deeper into her side. "Mr. Woo says I was to bring ya to him by any means I see necessary."

She took a sip of her vodka and smiled almost apologetically at her would-be suitor. Who got the hint that he wasn't about to get laid when Timo's right-hand, a huge Mexican that called himself Cuchillo, stuck one of his custom blades in the guy's side and growled; "Get lost _holmes_."

Selena watched as the guy scurried back to his friends without once offering to lend a hand.

"Gee, Timo," she said dryly. "You and your goons sure know how to ruin a good time."

"Come on, let's go."

Selena finished the last of her drink, watching in the mirror as the other two men took position behind her. She signaled for the bartender to pour another glass of vodka as she quickly figured her odds. Three to one—they were armed, she was not. But then, of the three of them, only Timo possessed what could pass for a brain.

"Guess I don't have much choice in the matter, now do I?"

"Not if you value your life." Timo grinned and showed perfectly capped teeth under a pencil-thin goatee.

"You win, Timo. You win. I'll come along quietly." Selena wrapped a hand around the vodka bottle, the other on her glass. "But how about we have a drink to your success in capturing the illusive agent known as the N_ight Heron_ first?"

"Mr. Woo doesn't allow drinking on the job. Now let's go, lady."

"Alright, Timo. Alright. I'll come quietly. Still," she said, lifting the glass to take a long drink. "It's a shame to be wasting such a lovely bottle of vodka."

Whirling, she tossed the contents of her glass into Timo's eyes and swung the bottle into the face of Cuchillo. With the impetuousness of the swing, he fell into the third man so that they fell backward onto the snack table. Mozzarella sticks and fried calamari strips flew everywhere. Wrapped around each other like lovers, they rolled into a bowl of marinara sauce.

"Such a waste," Selena muttered and planted a plateful of artichoke dip into the last man's face.

Knowing that the element of surprise was quickly wearing out, she used the last line of defense that she had available. She grabbed a chair from a nearby table and smashed it across Timo's back. Then she ran.

"Give the bill to the ugly guy with the face full of artichoke dip!" she called out as she weaved her way through tables and bodies.

On impulse, she grabbed hold of a busboy, and shoved him and his loaded tray in Cuchillo's direction. Silverware flew like bullets. She scrambled for the door, leaving the chaos behind her as she burst out onto the street. She'd managed to buy a small window of time. But Timo'd be back on her trail in a finger snap. And he'd be a whole lot meaner. She had to hope that Diana had gotten 47 in position. If not... well she didn't want to think about what the _if nots_ at the moment. She headed uptown on foot, deciding to take her chances on the subway since it was much easier to get shot than a taxi in this damn city.


End file.
